


a glitch on the television screen

by draculard



Category: WandaVision (TV)
Genre: F/M, Horror, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Technological Horror, Time Loop, glitching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29912994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: “Well, I like them,” Vision declares. Wanda pulls back, smiles at him.“Like what, dear?”There’s a low murmur of chuckling from the laugh track, as if the crowd anticipates a joke. He smiles too, like he’s in on it.“Butterfly kisses,” he says to the coffee table. He can’t muster up the contentment he felt a moment before. He folds his hands in his lap, furrows his eyebrows a second later when Wanda takes them in her own.“Of course you do, silly,” she says, squeezing his hands. “It’s our tradition, remember?”
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 6
Kudos: 79





	a glitch on the television screen

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too

Sometimes it doesn’t _feel_ like he’s going to bed. Sometimes it just feels like cutting to black.

* * *

Vision has never liked TV. He understands the appeal; there are some formats he approves of, some he even enjoys. But they’re in the minority. There’s something voyeuristic, almost masturbatory, about watching television; someone else’s broadcast, some other computer’s wavelengths on display. He knows it doesn’t disturb Wanda the way it does him; she can choose not to see the components that make up the whole, the same way she can use a computer without speaking to it, or turn on her cell phone without seeing it as a person. 

Of course, it’s not that simple. There’s cognizance, and then there’s circuits. Some go hand in hand, some don’t, and the television screen before them is not a Stark AI. It doesn’t see or hear or feel things yet. It doesn’t kill.

It doesn’t give life.

Perhaps, Vision thinks, his arm around Wanda, her warmth leaking into his skin as they sit together on the sofa, stare together at the TV screen — perhaps that’s the problem with it.

* * *

He wakes up to a laugh track. He isn’t in bed; he’s standing in the kitchen, fully dressed, his human skin on tight. He turns his hands over, stares at hyper-realistic veins beneath his skin. 

What has he just said? He looks at Wanda, finds her still pulling a face, waiting for him to catch up. What has _she_ just said? What have either of them done to earn a laugh? 

“Wanda—”

He falters. She smiles at him, bright and manic. Lines of strain appear around her eyes. 

“Vis,” she says, all warm exasperation. “You’re going to be late for work.”

For work, of course. He feels the weight of unnecessary glasses on the bridge of his nose, hooking around the shell of his ear. Blond hair flops into his line of sight when he turns his head, looks for his briefcase. Of course he’s going to work. Why else would he be dressed like this, wearing this disguise?

Only he doesn’t remember getting dressed. Sitting down for breakfast. Brushing his teeth, showering, going to bed.

Yesterday.

He doesn’t remember yesterday at all — only Wanda, bright and smiling, clasping his hand. Ushering him out the door.

“Wanda—” he starts again, but her hand is on the small of his back and her lips are pressed against his cheek, and the next thing he knows, he’s out the door. It closes behind him; he’s on the doorstep, facing the front walk, briefcase in hand and Wanda left behind.

He takes one step away from her and the laugh track ceases to exist.

* * *

“I don’t want to be here,” he tells her that night. His voice is a whisper, his lips pressed against her skin. He hopes, on some fundamental level, that she doesn’t hear him, just as much as he hopes she does. 

Her hand has been rubbing circles on his back, but now it stops, goes still. She doesn’t speak. He feels his heart stutter, sees the lights flicker, feels himself blink backwards.

Her hand is rubbing circles on his back. His lips are pressed against her skin.

“I want to stay here forever,” he says.

* * *

“It’s a butterfly kiss,” Wanda tells him.

Butterflies: winged insects, six legs, three distinct body parts. Not all of them have colorful patterns on their wings, but many of them do, and those are the ones humans love the best. He’s never seen one; he smiles slightly, closes his eyes as Wanda leans forward and brushes the tip of her nose against his own.

“And this…?” he says.

“This simulates how it feels when a butterfly’s wings brush against you,” Wanda says. Her breath ghosts against his lips as she speaks. 

“It does?”

“You know it does.”

He knows it does. Her nose brushes his again, and he smiles again; can’t help it.

“I’ve never seen a butterfly before,” he murmurs.

“You have.”

Of course he has. He’s seen one before. The memory appears in his head fully-formed, a beautiful scene of himself and Wanda on a grassy hill somewhere, spread out on a picnic blanket as a butterfly lights on Wanda’s outstretched hand and then, at her bidding, crawls onto Vision’s fingers instead. 

“Well, I like them,” Vision declares. Wanda pulls back, smiles at him. 

“Like what, dear?”

There’s a low murmur of chuckling from the laugh track, as if the crowd anticipates a joke. He smiles too, like he’s in on it. What joke? What crowd? He swallows his smile, looks away.

“Butterfly kisses,” he says to the coffee table. He can’t muster up the contentment he felt a moment before. He folds his hands in his lap, furrows his eyebrows a second later when Wanda takes them in her own. 

“Of _course_ you do, silly,” she says, squeezing his hands. “It’s our tradition, remember?”

He grimaces. The crowd laughs. This is the joke.

“Remember?”

The laughter swells. His head hurts. A sharp, stabbing pain in the center of his forehead.

“Remember?” 

He does.

* * *

No birds, no insects; no children. Vision stares out the window, his hands on the sill, watches one of their neighbors trim his hedges. The man takes his shears, positions them by mistake over his own index finger. Doesn’t notice what he’s doing. Cuts down.

No birds, no insects; no children. Vision stares out the window, his hands on the sill, watches one of their neighbors trim his hedges. The man takes his shears, positions them by mistake over his own index finger. Doesn’t notice what he’s doing.

“Herb,” Vision calls, voice scraping out of his throat. The window is closed; Herb doesn’t hear him. Cuts down.

No birds, no insects; no children. Vision turns away from the window, a terrible pain erupting between his eyes. He clutches his head, hears the faint snip of Herb’s shears against the hedges. Something has gone wrong here. There is something he must do, someone he must warn or something terrible will happen. He turns back to the window again, forces himself to peer through the pain.

Herb is trimming his hedges. There is nothing wrong with that. He notices Vision watching him, smiles and waves. His hands are healthy, intact; clean, even though he’s been working in the garden.

“Herb,” says Vision again, his voice still hoarse — and this time, miraculously, Herb hears him.

“Hiya, Vision!” he calls. “Beautiful day!”

It is. And the window is open, and Herb can hear him, and everything is fine. Vision takes a breath, stares down at his own hands clutching the window sill. He pushes his sleeve up, digs his fingernails into his own wrist. 

He doesn’t feel pain. He _shouldn’t_ feel pain. He never feels pain, isn’t capable of it.

Everything is fine. 

* * *

“There’s something wrong here,” he whispers. Her fingers trail down his bare chest, then stop; her face is closed-off, far away. “I don’t remember—” he starts.

“You do.”

He does. He pauses, tries again. 

“Our neighbors—”

“There’s nothing wrong with our neighbors.”

And she’s right, there isn’t. He blinks rapidly, feels the irrational sting of tears. But he can’t cry, he shouldn’t cry, he’s never cried before, and so a moment later, the tears are gone. His next breath shudders out of him. 

“My job,” he says. “I don’t know what I even do. Wanda, it’s like I—”

She moves her hand away, stops touching him. “Like what?” she says, voice flat.

All he wants is for her to touch him again. 

“Like…” he says. She stares up at the ceiling, her eyes cold. Vision reaches for her, stops, pulls back again. “Like we all appeared out of nowhere one day,” he says. “Like none of this is real.”

There is no laugh track, no background music. She turns to him, her eyes glistening, and he can hear her swallow and knows that he’s wrong. She’s real, even if nothing else is. He reaches for her again, and this time he manages it — feels her warm skin beneath his hand, her heartbeat pulsing against his palm. Her hair is soft against his fingers, the color a warm red-blonde that no TV screen could properly replicate, not with this amount of depth and detail. And no TV show could ever recreate the feeling of her tears against his skin.

“Wanda,” he says. “Talk to me.”

She takes a shallow breath, opens her mouth to speak. 

* * *

A glitch. 

* * *

He blinks. The laugh track greets him, like he’s fallen asleep at the wrong time and woken up at the wrong time, too; the audience knows it, even if he doesn’t. Soft hands remove his glasses for him, brush hair away from his forehead. A TV set sits across from him, static fizzing on the screen. 

His hands are grayscale. The room around him is black and white — and when he turns his head, he sees the woman sitting next to him, beautiful even without technicolor. Her eyes are full of fondness, full of warmth — no worries, only love.

She holds his hand, pulls him closer. He remembers her name just as she presses her lips to his: Wanda. His wife. And this is their house, and they live in Westview, and his name is Vision and he has to go to work today. He leans into the kiss, hears a soft sound, almost a moan, come from his own throat, and feels her smile against his lips in response. He wants to stay here forever, like this; has no memory of pain but clutches desperately to the new sensation of being pain-free.

She pulls back. Smiles again. Tilts her head to the TV screen, to the buzzing radio in the kitchen, to the lights which flicker and then stabilize overhead.

“Sorry about that, honey,” she says. “The power went out. We must have blown a fuse.”


End file.
